


Narcissism

by peevee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Science, Crack, Fuckery, M/M, Masturbation, Narcissism, Self-Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock engages in some, <i>ahem</i>, "Self Love". Literally.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"At this point (he doesn’t like to go into specifics, bad science gives him a headache) an alternate universe version of him steps through the hole, declares, “My god, you’re fantastic,” and pins him bodily to the kitchen table."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Narcissism

**Author's Note:**

> "What is this fuckery?" you may be asking, dear reader, and i'm sorry to say that i know not, only that it's 1.30am and my mind is addled.  
> Sherlock/Sherlock ahoy! Because the more Sherlock, the better, right? Right.

Sherlock is brilliant, a genius, fantastic. He knows this better than anyone. That is why, when the mood strikes him, the form his fantasies take make complete logical sense. 

It’ll start with an experiment, usually. Sometimes (as of late) a freak cloning accident at Baskerville. Once, a hologram (this was marked as a failure, he’d obviously not deleted all of the episodes of Red Dwarf that John had made him watch and the large silver ‘H’ which marred his otherwise perfectly formed forehead had been extremely distracting). He doesn’t see why proper world-building should be left at the wayside for imaginings such as this, having a reasonable premise makes everything more realistic, more enjoyable. 

Today, it’s an experiment. Upon the construction of a miniature particle accelerator in the kitchen, a test foray into electron collision had gone wrong, creating a rip in the space-time continuum, near the fridge. At this point (he doesn’t like to go into specifics, bad science gives him a headache) an alternate universe version of him steps through the hole, declares, “My god, you’re fantastic,” and pins him bodily to the kitchen table.

In his bedroom, Sherlock is stretched out on his bed, completely naked (practical, efficient) on top of the duvet. His door is locked in preparation for the afternoon’s activities; John is at the football with _Mycroft_ (ugh, delete, delete) which means that both of them are out of the picture for a short while.

Kissing himself, he imagines, would be far less tedious than it has been with anyone else. His other self would know exactly how to open his mouth under Sherlock’s, would know to stroke his tongue with soft little licks, tease the corners of his lips, press wet kisses along his jaw. He’d bite a little, pull at the lobe of Sherlock’s ear with his teeth, and he’d scrape Sherlock’s nipples with his nails through the fabric of his shirt. 

On the bed, Sherlock writhes.

In the kitchen, Other Sherlock has moved his mouth down Sherlock’s neck, unbuttoning his shirt and opening it to mouth softly at his nipples. They’re very sensitive, but Other Sherlock knows exactly how much is too much, exactly what kind of gasping is good and what is too much, too hard (It’s never too much, too hard with Other Sherlock. Always perfect). Sherlock brings his hands up to fist in Other Sherlock’s hair, dragging his head back up for another wet, open-mouthed kiss.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” says Other Sherlock, and Sherlock shivers.

“ _Yes,_ ” Sherlock groans on the bed, his hand fisted loosely around his cock. The fingers of his left hand flick gently at a nipple, he imagines it’s Other Sherlock and his cock twitches, dripping fluid onto his belly. He spreads it around with his thumb.

In his fantasy, they’re suddenly on the sofa, naked (realistic world building flung to the kerb), Sherlock on his back, legs spread, with Other Sherlock kneeling between them. Other Sherlock drags slippery fingers along Sherlock’s perineum; he is biting his lip, eyelids fluttering as his other hand strokes over his nipples. Sherlock watches, revelling in the flawless delicate slide of Other Sherlock’s fingers, teasing. He likes to be teased until he is desperate, keening, quivering. He likes to be touched everywhere except his cock until he is begging to come. Other Sherlock knows this, of course, that’s why he’s perfect.

“Fuck me with your fingers.”

He likes a bit of dirty talk, too. 

On the bed, Sherlock has insinuated a spit-slick finger behind him and is stroking it over the soft skin behind his balls. It’s easy to imagine it’s Other Sherlock, because his fingers would feel exactly like this.

Other Sherlock’s fingers slide easily into him, and Sherlock moans, pants, squirms on the sofa, pushing back onto them. Of course they glide effortlessly over his prostate, just the right amount of teasing pressure.

“More, another finger,”

Three fingers, and it doesn’t hurt, it just feels _full_ , wonderful. Other Sherlock’s thumb ghosts over the skin stretched around his fingers, dipping in and around as Sherlock gasps, “God, fuck me, fuck me.”

Other Sherlock lifts him effortlessly (Sherlock’s not going to think too much about that particular kink), twists on the sofa and says “ _Ride me_ ,” as he positions Sherlock over his cock. Sherlock sinks down ever so slowly, and takes the opportunity to pull a gasping Other Sherlock into a wet, messy kiss. Other Sherlock rolls his hips, eyes narrowed, and begins a hot, steady rhythm. 

Sherlock is shivering helplessly on top of the duvet now, hand flying desperately on his cock, finger stroking still-delicately over his sensitive opening, and he can feel himself hurtling towards orgasm. 

He imagines Other Sherlock grasping him by the hips, lifting him up as if he weighed nothing and pushing him back down onto his cock and that’s it, that’s all he needs, he’s coming copiously all over his hand, his stomach, the sheets. 

“Oh f-fuck, fuck, _Sherlock_!”

As he flops prostrate on the bed still twitching through the hazy aftershocks, his phone buzzes. He clumsily fumbles for it and checks the text.

**im not even going  
** to ask. i wish i had a  
delete function 

He texts back,

_**It was exactly what it  
sounded like.** _

The reply comes almost instantly,

**:(**

**going to the pub.  
** dont be naked when  
I get back 

_**Noted. Get milk.** _

He stretches, sighs in contentment. All in all, a rather successful afternoon’s work. He turns his head to where he knows for a fact there is a little tangle of wires and electronics stuffed into the wall cavity, and gives it the finger with a gleeful grin.


End file.
